The Narcoleptic Detective
by Ashtrees
Summary: Sherlock has a serious neurological disorder which can make everyday functioning difficult. How can he be a detective if he feels tired all the time?
1. Chapter 1

_I don't own Sherlock_

**Narcolepsy**

"Shit, Sherlock!"

Inspector Lestrade saw the younger man suddenly drop to his knees and slump sideways, but decided to focus his attention on signalling for the oncoming car to slow down and stop. You had to keep your priorities straight when your friend falls asleep whilst crossing a road, besides which it was the job of Sherlock's Boarder Collie to watch over him during such episodes.

The blue Volvo gradually slowed to halt and the driver stuck her head out of the cracked door.

"Should I call an ambulance?" she called.

"No, he's fine," Lestrade said, watching Toby in his peripheral vision, nibbling Sherlock's fingers. The detective's hand twitched and Lestrade knew he would be awake any second, which was fortunate, given the amount of traffic that was starting to build up behind the Volvo. "He's, uh, narcoleptic."

The driver frowned. "Then get him out of the way! If he's narcoleptic, then what does he think he's doing, holding everyone up?"

Lestrade decided to put the fear of the law into the obnoxious woman. He felt in his pocket for his I.D, but couldn't find it. Strange how he kept loosing them every time he consulted Sherlock.

It was fortunate that the case was over and he could take Sherlock home, if they ever made it to his car.

He knelt beside his friend. "Come on, Sherlock. Time to wake up."

Lestrade refrained from shaking Sherlock's shoulder knowing that the detective preferred to be woken by Toby; he was never aware of suddenly falling asleep and gradually coming round in strange places could be disorientating.

Finally, Sherlock's eyes flickered open, but only halfway. As he took in his surroundings he held out his hand for Toby to step forward to receive a reassuring pat.

"Are you okay?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course."

"Good, then let's get out of here."

Lestrade hauled Sherlock to his feet and propelled him to the other side of the road where his car was parked. Sherlock and Toby clambered into the back, with Sherlock stretching himself out along the seats. Toby was left to lie on the floor.

"I take it that you didn't take your meds this morning," Lestrade said, taking the hand brake off with a loud click.

"Hmmm," Sherlock murmured. "Forgot."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and pulled out into the road.

_A/N: Thank you for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

Greg pulled up on Montague Street. He glanced at Sherlock in the mirror.

"Wake him up, Toby," he said, unclipping his seatbelt and climbing out of the car.

The boarder collie leapt onto the seat and began to nuzzle his master's face.

Aware that he was wanted back at the Yard Greg opened the car door and, leaning in, began to shake Sherlock's shoulder.

"Come on, Sherlock," he said. "We're back now."

Sherlock stirred under his touch, blinking blearily.

"That didn't take long," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one who knows some good shortcuts around London. Out you get."

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs out onto on the pavement. He unsteadily made his way to the front door with Toby trotting close to his heels.

"You can go now, Inspector," he said, around a large yawn.

Greg raised his eyebrows. "For my own peace of mind, I think I'll stick around for a moment."

Sherlock scowled, but was apparently too tired to argue. He fished his keys out of his pocket and pushed open the battered door.

The Detective Inspector wrinkled his nose as the unique stench of the Montague house met him. It had that effect on most people. A mixture of damp and the fish and cabbage the landlord liked to consume most nights. He caught sight of Sherlock instinctively rubbing his nose. Toby gave a low whine.

"You've got to find a better place than this, Sherlock," said Greg, looking around at the dark wallpaper.

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured and began to hurry up the stairs, holding on tightly to the banister.

Greg followed directly behind him just in the case the detective suddenly fell asleep and needed someone to prevent him from tumbling down the stairs backwards. Toby ran up ahead of them, waiting at the top and wagging his tail.

Sudden sleep attacks were fairly unusual for Sherlock, for whom narcolepsy mainly caused a tendency to be excessively drowsy during the daytime, but the stimulants he took (if he remembered to take them) allowed him to stay alert.

However, if Greg involved him in a complex case then Sherlock's daily routine would go out of the window. He would cut back on his usual seven hours of sleep, preferring to cat nap, and would often forget to take his medication twice a day. Then he would start to suffer sleep attacks any time and any place. Sitting down, standing up, whilst running, walking, talking, fighting off a suspect…Greg had seen it happen in a wide variety of situations.

Sherlock used a second key to unlock the door to his flat and headed straight for his bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto his bed, asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, while Toby settled himself on the floor.

Greg knew that Sherlock expected him to leave at this point, but instead Greg took it upon himself to set the alarm clock to go off at seven a.m. the next morning. It would be better for Sherlock if was able to stick to his daily routine as much as possible. Without the clock Greg knew that he would sleep straight through the morning, afternoon and well into the evening too.

He closed the curtains and pulled the blanket over Sherlock. Then he ambled into the kitchen area and mooched around to see if he could discover anything edible for Sherlock to eat once he woke up. He found a stale-ish loaf of bread in the bread bin, tucked under a copy of _I, Robot_ by Isaac Asimov. Feeling more confident now that he had unearthed the bread, Greg opened the fridge, found a large margarine tub, pulled off the lid and found not margarine, but a pair of handcuffs. Greg decided it was best not to think too much about it, putting the margarine tub back. Sherlock would just have to have sandwiches without margarine. He fortunately found a block of cheese that looked fresh enough.

He placed the stale-ish cheese sandwiches on a plate and filled up a glass with cold tap water. He then ambled back into Sherlock's bedroom and placed the plate and glass on the bedside table.

Toby looked up at him hopefully.

"I know. I've haven't forgotten you," said Greg, patting the dog's head.

Back in the kitchen, Greg went straight to the top right corner cupboard and found that as always it was filled up with tinned dog food. It seemed that Sherlock cared more about Toby's growling stomach than he did his own.

Having satisfied his conscious that Sherlock and Toby would survive until the next day Greg left the flat, quietly closing the door behind him.

_A/N: Thank you for reading, reviewing and following!_


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